Twentieth Year
by The Man-Eating Ninja
Summary: The day after Tim Shepard's twentieth birthday, he begins a chain of events that make this year the most interesting one in his life, so far. Rated for violince and Tim's mouth.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns the Outsiders and all of it's characters**

The day after his Twentieth birthday, Tim Shepard wakes up with a hangover, a girl he doesn't really care for in his bed, and a shitload of things to do. He sits up and runs a hand through his tangle of black curls, sighing. The girl shifts a little, her tan skin a contrast to the bright white sheets. He thinks her name is Janice or Janine or Jane, but he can't remember it very well. We wasn't really focused on her name last night, when he was drunk and as carefree as he ever got. All he had been thinking about then was a certain part of her anatomy.

But now, he wishes he could remember; he's find girls are easier to get rid of girls painlessly when you know their name. He doesn't remember last night to well, but he knows this broad is confident and thinks a lot of herself; it's hard to turn chicks like her down, because they take it as a personal slap to their pride, and tend to avoid any future meetings.

He gets out of the bed, his back cracking. The bedroom of his small house is cramped, and he hardly has room to get dressed in the space between the bed and his dresser. He doesn't keep much in their- some jeans, a few shirts, and two jackets- but it was the cheapest dresser he'd found two years ago, when he bought this place.

The girl moans slightly as she wakes up, stretching and pulling the sheet up to cover her chest. He can't see why she bothers- he's seen it all last night.

"Morning, babe." her voice is sweet at honey, but he really doesn't care. She was good, but boring, and no sultry voice is going to change that.

"Morning." he replies, hunting through his drawers for some socks. He finds them, and slides them on, followed by shoes.

"You going somewhere?" she asked, frowning.

"Yep." he pops the 'P', before grabbing her clothing from the floor and tossing it to her. "I got business to take care of." he says. He heads towards the bathroom in this pitiful excuse for a master bedroom, and the girl pouts some more. He thinks her lips might just fall out if she tried turning them further down.

"What about me?" she asks, trying to sound seductive but instead sounding insecure and confused. He kind of pity's her.

"This house," he begins, as he prepares to close the bathroom door, "Ain't to big. I'm sure you can find your own way out." with that, they're separated by the thin wood that is the bathroom door. He stopped feeling guilty about that sort of thing a long time ago. That broad knew what was gonna happen, but she made the choice to follow him home, and that ain't his problem.

Besides, most chicks know by now that Tim Shepard doesn't stick with the broad he sleeps with. So if she didn't know that, that ain't his problem.

When he's cleaned up, he stumbles all the way to the kitchen, and begins making some coffee. The chick has disappeared, which is good, because he hates dealing with the stubborn ones. He once knew a broad he'd had to physically guide out of his house- it had been annoying,and had put him off redheads for a while.

He downs the coffee in less than three minutes, knowing he needs the energy; unfortunately, he wasn't lying when he said he had business to take care of. He has a few people to meet up with, and a few things he needs to get from them, and then he's got to make sure thees _things_ end up in the right hands.

He's out of the house by nine AM, an astonishing feat for a hood who's just celebrated his birthday and who people expect to be walking around drunk all day. But Tim ain't never been the kind of guy who puts off things that can be done right then. And this could be done right then.

His old Chevy somehow rumbles to life at the fourth turn of his key. A friend of his- Gary Oldman, is good with cars- he ain't no mechanic, but he could probably fix this piece of junk. He makes a mental note to talk to Gary about it, and drives towards Tulsa's north side.

Catherine Hillside is thumbing through bills when Tim walks in to the dingy place she runs. The peeling paint on the door reads _Olivia Carlton's antique books_, but he knows no one searching for reading material would come in here. He also knows Olivia Carlton is long gone, just a name adopted by Catherine.

He isn't shocked that some blond broad is in the shop to, sitting in one of the large chairs- Catherine always has her nieces and daughters from her multiple ex-husbands hanging around here for company. He is surprised to see one of the dusty books that are mainly for show open in her lap. Tim is hardly stupid, especially about chicks- he knows they like to read. It's just that this one looks like one of 'em half greasy chicks, the kind who dress like the girls on this side of town, if the girls on this side of town gave a damn about being slightly modest. Most girls with greaser habits tend to avoid the books.

She looks up and their eyes meet, and he swears she give him a hateful glare.

"Timothy Leroy Shepard, it's nice to see you, darling." Catherine smiles at him sweetly. Good old Cathy is really something, as anyone who's met her can tell you. She has a massive figure, and Tim always wonders how she fits in this narrow shop. Her hair is dyed a red color to light for her dark eyebrows and tanned skin, and she likes to dress in exuberant colors that really shock anyone she comes across. "Now pay attention, Marilyn," she says, turning to the platinum blond in the corner, "This is one of my best clients."

Marilyn smiles kind of sarcastically.

"I'll bet he is." she says, her voice filled with scorn. Catherine rolls her eyes as if to say_ what an I gonna do with her_, but turns her attention back to Tim. Catherine isn't to tolerant of rudeness, which means she must like this Marilyn, or the younger girl would have gotten a piece of 'ol Cathy's mind. Tim has been on the receiving end of Catherine's lectures, and now he tries to keep her in a good mood.

"I take it you're here for your order?"

"Yes, Ma'am." He doesn't usually call anyone Ma'am, but when the phrase was directed at Catherine, it was kind of a mutual joke. Besides, you don't want to piss Catherine Hillside off, unless you have a death wish.

"Well, you've made all your payments but the last, and you can give that to me later." she turns to the blond again, "Tim Hasn't missed a payment in all our professional history," she say, almost proudly. She turns back to Tim, "And lets keep it that way. I'd hate to set one of my boys on you, hon." she laughs as she says this, but Tim knows it ain't no joke; he knew a guy who didn't make his payments, and he don't know that kid any more.

"I've got the payment with me, and you'll get it when I get my stuff." he say's coolly. He trust Catherine, but he's a business man.

"And we're about to get it to you. Marilyn." Catherine nods towards the door, And Marilyn gets up reluctantly, muttering something about deserving some pay. As she walks, Tim notices shes got a great ass, and she seems to enjoy shaking it around, because theirs no way that much movement is accidental.

"Who's kid is she?" he asks, when _she_ is safely out of the room. Catherine lets out a loud laugh.

"Mine, would you believe it?" Tim would like to say that no, he wouldn't, but lets her go on. "Never thought one of my kids would be so pale. I swear, she's an albino. And she's tiny. That comes from her dad- my second husband- he was real small and so is she. Of course, his size is why I ended up divorcing him. Ha! But She's a hell of a lot smarter than my other kids. To smart to pull half the stunts she tries. I swear she does it all to piss me off."

Tim can relate; until a few years ago, when she straightened up and started going with that Curtis kid, Angela was like that- wild and reckless, and did most of the stuff she did to push limits.

"I swear, if any of my girls are gonna be the death of me, it'll be that one. Just last night, she gets home at two AM, hops of this boys motorcycle, and walks in like that was nothing. And I heard from one of her sisters that she's going with _Simon Carpenter, _of all the lousy hoods." she looks up at his face, "No offense."

"None taken." he says dryly, right as Marilyn Comes out of the back room, with a large cardboard box with some Phony Book company's name plastered on it. He looks at her closely- she's a real looker, if you like the mean type of broads, and like her Ma said, she's pale as all get out. She's got a good figure and legs a mile long, but she's real skinny and Tim figures she'd break if you fucked her. He doesn't have to wonder what a chick like her is doing with Carpenter, the head of the River Kings.

She shoves him the boy and he pulls a folded envelope from his pocket, handing it to Catherine the moment the box is securely in his hands. And turns to leave.

"I'll see ya' 'round, hon." Catherine calls. He turns and nods at her one last time before leaving the shop. He knows he won't come to that location for a while, in fact, if all goes well, he won't be in there for a very long time.

He figures everything is going to be going a lot better.

And he feels kind of smug. He's like to see the look on that pretty little face Marilyn's got when she realized the RK's are hardly on top of this town.

He smirks. He thinks his twentieth year will be his best yet.

**So, tell me what you think. I worked pretty hard on this, so I'd love some reviews**.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews!**

**Disclaimer; The Outsiders still belongs to S.E. Hinton, not me.**

When Tim pulls up to his house, he finds three of his own waiting in the lawn.

There's Curly, smoking and sitting on the porch, not starting arguments for once. Dale Ford is there, cleaning his nails with an ivory-handled switch-blade- Dale used to be from one of 'em soc families, but when he got disowned, that blade was the only thing he could sneak off with. Tim wasn't sure what made Dale as strange as he was- he figured it had to do with the fact that he went from living in a giant home to the streets; Tim thinks he'd have been better off never knowing what money was.

Finally, there's Arnold Quill, more commonly known as Quill. He's Tim's second in command, and the most logical guy Tim knows. Quill is the type of guy who would stare you in the eye, and if he figured it was okay for you to die, would shoot you.

They all get up and walk towards the car when Tim pulls into the driveway. They wait patiently for him to get, even Curly minimizes the fidgeting, and Tim realizes that they know this is serious. He's glad- he doesn't like trying to communicate big issues to people who only want to goof off.

He takes his sweet time getting out of the car and grabbing the box from the trunk. He begins to walk towards his house, and the crowd follows, knowing not to mess with Tim when he's feeling serious.

When they all finally gather inside, around a cheap dinning room table, the box in the middle of it, Curly is the first to speak.

"So..." one word, and Tim's plan it set into motion. With a nod of his head, Dale pulls out his switchblade and cuts the tape off the box. Tim opens the box, and pulls out it's contents slowly. He can feel the tension rising and the duffel bad contained in the box lands on the table.

Tim unzips it, revealing four new, black guns.

"Shit." It's curly who says that, as his eyes widen.

"Yep." Tim says, "Shit."

"Whats this about?" Dale asks. Tim can see he's itching to get his hands on one of the guns.

"Y'all know we ain't the only gang in Tulsa." as Tim speaks, the three listener nod, "Then you also know the RK's are our biggest rivals. Ever since we lost Jim and Terry, two of our _best_, you could say, they've been reeking havoc in are turf, jumping our members, and causing us a lot of trouble." Tim sounded, to himself, like one of 'em movie gang bosses; authoritative, strong, everything he is. "So we're gonna stop 'em. We ain't gonna shoot anyone, at least not yet, but we just gotta scare 'em. Keep them away, y'know? A switch blade ain't gonna do that."

"Tim," Quill asks, "How the hell are we gonna let 'em know we got these without the fuzz getting word? seems like a lot of trouble for a simple fear tactic."

"I don't think that's gonna be a problem." Tim says, thinking of Marilyn. He couldn't have worked it out more perfectly himself. "And it ain't just a scare tactic. You know what we can do with these? I'm telling you- every damn shit is gonna be scared of us when word gets out we got these. I've got half a mind to spread it around that we have more, so that the fuzz gets creeped- that won't be hard, their scared of us already. My main motivation was the RK's, but theirs more to it than that."

The room is silent for a second.

"So do I get one?" Curly finally asks, eying the weapons. Tim resists the urge to groan. Of course, his brother's gotta be the one to ask.

"Yes. Each person in this room gets one." he glances at each face for just a moment. "Because I trust y'all aren't gonna do something to stupid with 'em."

line

Marilyn stretches out in Simone's bed, enjoying the feel of the sheets against her back. Simone lies beside her, relaxed and happy. She knows he vulnerable now, week. She knows that if she wants something, she'd better ask now.

"Hey, babe?" she asks, rolling over so that she's resting on her elbows.

"Yeah?" he mumbles, eyes still half closed.

"What do you see me as?" the question doesn't come out quiet the way she wants, but it's good enough.

He smirks like a pervert before answering.

"I see you as a damn fine chick who's in my bed." he tells her, clearly reliving what had happened moments ago.

"No, I mean," she tried to sound more assertive, "Am I your girlfriend?" she hates to say it like that- like some needy broad who just wants to hear the strongest guy in the room say she's his, but that's what it's come to.

"Shoot, kid, y'know I hate labels." He's told her that before and she figures he'll tell her it again. Still, it annoys her. She's gotta admit that a big part of it is that he calls her _kid_. Sure, he's six years older, but at nineteen, she thinks she's outgrown the title. The only person who called her kid before she met him was her Ma. She shudders- Simone sure as hell ain't her mama.

She waits a few minutes before starting up another conversation. She wants to say something that will blow his mind, and finally, it comes to her.

"You'd never guess," she says slowly, "Who came into my Mama's shop today." Simone knows all about Catherine Hillside's business; in fact, it's how he met Marilyn, so he perks up a little when she says this.

"Who?" he asks, his eyes finally opening with interest.

"Timothy Leroy Shepard." she says this smugly, knowing what impact the words will have on Simone.

He scrambles out of bed in a heartbeat, and begins frantically searching for his pants.

"And you kept that in all day?" he asks, "I swear, Marilyn, I'll marry ya' if I don't kill ya' first!" he's found the pants, but then realizes he needs some underwear, and cusses his head off. Marilyn lies back for a few minutes, enjoying the view. But then, she realizes something.

"I should get dressed, huh?" she asks, disappointment apparent in her voice.

"Listen, Doll, I ain't got a problem with you riding on my motorcycle buck naked, and I don't think them fuzz would either- but your Mama might." he leans down and kisses her, and she nods.

She's dressed in a matter of seconds, not having worn much to his place, and they leave quickly. He's got a nice new bike, and she makes herself comfortable, knowing it's a long ride home. Last time, she got back at two, and her Ma had wanted to skin her alive. Tonight, if she's back before midnight it will surprise everyone involved.

She feels safe, with her arms around Simone's waist. All her life, she's looked for the strongest player in the game; she figures men decide who the kings are, and the girls have just gotta match themselves up with whoever they can claw away from the other chicks. That's the way things work around here- if your man is an alpha, so are you, and if he ain't, then you ain't. It's the way her mother thought her.

_Now listen, girly, _She's said, _I've had nothing but failures in my life, so you'd better pick a winner_.

Well, if Simone Carpenter wasn't a winner, she didn't know who was.

Line

Tim can hardly feel the gun hidden by his coat as he eyes a group of broads in Bucks. You gotta watch out around the chicks in Bucks, because the place is of neutral turf and the cold be anyone's girls. But he figures that he deserves any dame he wants tonight- he's twenty, he's powerfull, and he's got the best feeling of triumph in the world.

One of the girls catches his eyes and giggles. He groans a little- trust the best looking one to be the giggler. But then she gets a hold of herself and gives him a sultry smile.

He tries to make his way to her, but feels a hand close around his forearm. He turns, thinking it's the girls boyfriend and that he's going to need to fight someone, but instead comes face-to-face with Quill.

Which can't be good.

"You'd better come, Tim," he says in a grave voice, "Your news spread pretty quickly."

"What do you mean?" He knows fully well what Quill means, but he sure ain't leaving if Quill won't say it.

"I mean, a certain River King is waiting outside, and he looks pretty angry."

**Sorry for the long wait.**

**The story didn't get much reviews, and I have a lot of school work...**

**:P**


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